


A Coin for your Thoughts

by SandraMorningstar



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:46:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22145893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandraMorningstar/pseuds/SandraMorningstar
Summary: Geralt had wished for Jaskier to be quiet more times than he can count. When the bard suddenly does, it's far from the relief he thought it would be. Confronting the bard about it, he learns about Jaskier's past - particularly about the parts he'd rather like to forget.Things seem to be looking up, but then Geralt returns from a job to find him gone.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 38
Kudos: 848





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure, I have only played the Witcher 3 and not yet finished the Netflix show so my characterisation might be more game-compliant than show-compliant in parts. 
> 
> Also, this whole fic is pure and utter self-indulgence and was mostly written late at night, so there might be some atrocious grammar or misspelled words. If you notice anything of the kind, feel free to leave a comment and let me know. Feel free to leave a comment and tell me what you liked, too, of course. ;)

Geralt had thought Jaskier’s incessant blabbering would rob him of his last nerve sooner rather than later. He’d dreamed of finding a way to shut the bard up. At least for a while. Then his problem had solved itself, though in a way Geralt found he hated even more than the previous status quo.

Jaskier had been quiet all morning. At first Geralt had chalked it up to the hangover the bard had to suffer from given how much drink he’d had the previous night. However, apart from his unusual wordlessness he seemed fine. No pallid skin, no overt signs of a headache, nor clumsy movements – well, at least not clumsier than usual. Hell, he didn’t even flirt with the young barmaid that served them their breakfast and even managed a nervous smile as she set their plates down.

“What cat got your tongue?”, Geralt said, digging into his food.

“I thought you want me to shut up”, Jaskier snapped surly. Muttering, he added: “You sure said it often enough…”

An exasperated huff escaped Geralt. “Don’t ask, if you don’t want to hear the answer.”

Jaskier scowled. The display was neither impressive nor intimidating. It made him look like a pouting child but Geralt made sure not to let his amusement show.

“Whatever”, Jaskier said after a moment, staring down at his plate. “How would you even understand? You’re a Witcher. Witchers don’t feel.”

Curiously, Geralt felt a surge of anger at the words, though it was hardly the first time he’d heard them. “Lucky for you”, he shot back. “If I did, I might take offence to your tone.” The unspoken warning in his words was unmissable.

And yet, Jaskier breezed right past it. “Lucky me”, he parroted in a sarcastic drawl. Then, abruptly, he got up and walked out of the inn. Geralt let him, a frustrated grumble the only reaction his travel companion’s sudden departure elicited.

Once he’d finished his meal, Geralt decided to go looking for Jaskier. Truth be told, he’d thought about skipping town. After all, it wasn’t like he’d ever agreed to be the bard’s travel companion. Still, it felt wrong to leave him behind like this.

He stepped out of the inn and looked up and down the shoddy dirt road that was the main thoroughfare of the backwater village they’d found themselves in. There wasn’t much around and even less that was of interest to a bard. Then again, Jaskier had likekly just wandered off in a random direction to find a place to mope. That made things harder, of course, but Geralt knew how to track all manner of beasts, so he could damn well track a surly bard.

The trail led him around the village for a while until finally verging off the road, leading towards a small glade. As Geralt walked closer he heard the by-now familiar strumming of Jaskier’s lute. He stepped into the shadow of the trees, not quite sure what to say once he came face-to-face with Jaskier. He had no idea what the bard wanted to hear from him. An apology? Maybe. Or maybe that would set him off again. How was Geralt supposed to know? He wasn’t good at dealing with situations like this.

He was still pondering his plan of attack when he spotted Jaskier. The bard sat with his back to him, leaning against a withered stone that Geralt only recognised for what it was on second glance: a grave. Jaskier either hadn’t made the connection at all or didn’t mind, though the former seemed more likely. The song he was playing was soft and filled with yearning and Geralt found himself inadvertently listening to the words Jaskier was quietly singing to himself.

> Black is the color of my true love's hair  
>  His face so soft and wondrous fair  
>  The purest eyes  
>  And the strongest hands  
>  I love the ground whereon he stands
> 
> I love my lover  
>  And well he knows  
>  I love the ground whereon he goes  
>  And still I hope the time will come  
>  When he and I will be as one.
> 
> I go to the glade to mourn and weep,  
>  But satisfied I ne'er will be.  
>  I'll write to you a few short lines,  
>  And suffer death ten thousand times.

His voice broke at the last few words, cut off by a harsh sob. Jaskier let his lute sink onto his lap and wiped at his face. And then, as if he’d sensed Geralt’s presence, he stumbled to his feet and turned around, holding his lute pressed close to his body as if it was an innocent child he meant to protect. Fear flickered over his features, then recognition that turned into an expression of desperate anger.

“What are you doing here?”, Jaskier nearly shouted, his voice shrill. He clearly felt cornered, taking a minute step back.

“Been looking for you”, Geralt said matter-of-factly. “I wasn’t trying to be rude, earlier.”

They stood facing each other like opponents on a battlefield. Jaskier seemed on the verge of lashing out again any moment but whenever it seemed like he was about to say something, he pressed his lips into a tight line, shutting himself up. He was holding back, Geralt realized suddenly. Not that he could say anything that Geralt hadn’t heard a million times. Still, his refusal seemed important. The way a monster’s hesitation to attack was important because a beast doesn’t simply decide not to attack. Usually, when people bit their tongues around him it was out of fear. That had never applied to Jaskier, though. But what else could it be?

Jaskier sighed, then, and his whole body deflated. “Well, you found me”, he simply said. “Are we leaving?”

Geralt nodded. “My work here’s done. Got my coin for it, too. Now I’m expected to bugger off as soon as possible.”

Jaskier nodded and walked back to the inn. It was clear he didn’t want to talk about what had happened or why and, truth be told, Geralt should have been thankful for it. Feelings were difficult for him. He understood them as motivators, and he could read them on people’s faces. Talking about them was something else entirely, though. People got defensive. They denied them even when it was glaringly obvious they were lying. Geralt didn’t have the patience for such discussions and yet Jaskier’s continuing sullen silence bothered him.

* * *

They came through a few towns and villages throughout the day but the way the people looked at him made the decision to move on easy. People only wanted a Witcher around when there was a monster to be slain. Geralt didn’t want to stir up trouble, so he respected it.

That, however, left them to set up camp in the wilderness. He expected Jaskier to complain, but the bard didn’t. He definitely wasn’t happy about it, looking so miserable and displeased that it was almost palpable, yet no word of dissent left his mouth. For someone as verbal as him, the contrast was downright eerie. Geralt, finely tuned to pick up even on the smallest deviations, felt himself growing ever more tense as he busied himself with making a fire. Jaskier moved quietly, unpacking their bedrolls and laid them out on the least damp spot of earth he could find.

The evening meal was a quiet affair, too, and it was when Geralt decided he’d tiptoed around the issue – whatever it was – long enough. With a sigh he got up and pulled two things out of Roach’s saddlebags. He threw one towards Jaskier, who clumsily caught it at the last second. Looking at it, he knit his brows in confusion. “A coin?”, he said, clearly putting effort into keeping his voice even. “What for?”

“A coin for your thoughts, bard”, Geralt said and sat down again. He held out the flask he’d fetched. “And this to loosen your tongue. If you want.”

At first, Jaskier hesitated. Then he took the offered flask. A long draught was followed by another. “The village we left this morning used to be my home” He snorted and looked down, hanging his shoulders. “Seems like a liefetime ago now.”

“Somebody recognise you?”, Geralt prompted.

“No. Doubt anyone could, if I’m honest.” Another swig from the flask. “I was … a different person when I left. Shy. Quiet. You’d have loved it.” His sarcasm was sharp like a blade.

Geralt didn’t take the bait. He remained silent and waited for Jaskier to continue. When the silence dragged on, he cleared his throat and asked: “Why did you leave?”

Jaskier shrugged. It was a gesture of discomfort, an I’d-rather-not-talk-about-it not an I-don’t-know. He continued, nonetheless. “There was no reason to stay. Everyone I’d cared about and who cared about me was dead. My father died before I turned ten. I wasn’t sad about it at first because he’d been a mean old bastard the years before but looking back, I realize he was just … a broken man. He used to be different. Tough, but fair. Never cruel. He was a soldier. I think he’d have liked me to follow in his footsteps, but it was always clear that I wouldn’t. He made his peace with it after a while, I think. There were other professions, after all. I was smart, so he did his best to get me a good education. But then he got injured and despite all my mother’s efforts it healed wrong and he was left a cripple. It changed him. He grew bitter and violent and when he left the house it was to go to the pub and get drunk. I began to despise him. Mother told me I shouldn’t but it’s hard to be compassionate when you’re hungry because all your coin is turned into booze. When he died, I thought things would get better again.” Jaskier laughed; an ugly, broken sound. He raised the flask again and drank until the alcohol burning down his throat registered. He screwed his eyes shut, a shiver running through him at the biting taste.

Geralt took the flask from him under the guise of taking a swig himself, then kept it. Despite what Jaskier claimed, he couldn’t hold his liquor, and this was strong stuff.

“Of course, they didn’t”, Jaskier said. “Well, they did for a while. We had enough coin to buy food again. But then Winter came. It came early and then refused to leave. Food became scarce. Lifestock died. Then, the people started to die, too. And as if starvation wasn’t enough, a plague broke out as well. Mother must have been one of the first to get sick, but she didn’t tell me. I think she knew she wouldn’t make it and didn’t want me to worry. By the time I found out, all I could do was say my final goodbye to her.” He drew in a sharp breath and wiped a hand across his eyes, quickly moving on. “Suddenly I was all alone and I didn’t know what to do. On my own, I didn’t make enough to keep a roof over my head. It was still winter, and no one had money to spare or need of an extra mouth to feed. I thought my days were numbered as well. I hadn’t given up, but I wasn’t blind to the reality of my situation. Thankfully, a friend of mine convinced his parents to take me in. They hadn’t much either but needed an extra pair of hands after their oldest son had passed away. It was back-breaking work. I never complained, though. They took me in and treated me like family. What more could I ask for? And then, finally, spring came. There was more work to do but there were also market days again and festivities and laughter. Spring turned into summer and then the harvest season came. I was working on the fields with Tomasz, the son of the family who had taken me in. We had been friends for as long as I can remember, but we’d grown even closer after months of sharing a room and being the only people our age in the house. The sun was burning down and I desperately needed a break, so I offered to go and fetch some water from the well. Tomasz nodded. I knew he’d seen right through me, but he only smiled and said to be back soon. I shouldn’t have left him.” A sob interrupted his word flow, the tears coming in earnest now. Jaskier stretched out his hand in a silent plea for the flask. Geralt handed it to him. Hangover be damned, if anybody needed a stiff drink right now, it was the bard.

“I can see where this is going”, he said, a grim expression on his face. “A noonwraith took him.”

Jaskier nodded. “I caught a glimpse at the wraith whirling him around when I came back … and I just booked it. Left him. Left town. Never came back. Well, until a few days ago.” He was wringing his hands, eyes firmly cast downward.

“You couldn’t have done anything to help him”, Geralt said. He might not know much about emotions, but he knew that particular strain of guilt all to well. He didn’t expect Jaskier to simply believe him, but he knew that hearing it helped nonetheless.

“I know that. Rationally”, Jaskier said quietly, voice heavy with tears.

“But that doesn’t stop you going over it again and again, trying to find _something_ you could have done different”, Geralt said in sympathy.

“Yeah” Jaskier looked up at him, surprise flashing across his face. Quickly, he reigned his expression in, smiling apologetically. “Thank you, Geralt.”

“Hm.” Geralt inclined his head.

* * *

During the next few days, Jaskier slowly recovered and found back to his old self. Maybe he was a bit quieter, but it was far from the closed-off manner from before. He’d perked up even more when Geralt announced that they would pass through Oxenfurt and likely stay for a few days. The city folk didn’t like to admit it but even behind their oh so secure walls, there was plenty of work for a Witcher. And if that gave Jaskier a few days to perform at inns and at the market square, woo some hopefully unmarried ladies or whatever else he liked to do, why not. They’d been on the road for long enough that even Geralt was quietly dreaming of a real bed and a meal he didn’t have to hunt himself.

Once they’d found an inn, Geralt took Jaskier with him to the market. He needed to stock up on supplies and his swords could do with a bit of expert care from a weapon smith, too. Being among people put a smile on Jaskier’s lips and a spring to his steps and Geralt wondered not for the first time why the bard was so adamant about sticking around. At this point, he had to have enough material to write a dozen song or even more, if he was smart about it. The topic was a delicate one to bring up, however, and since he didn’t want to sour the mood, Geralt kept his thoughts to himself.

As expected, work wasn’t hard to find. The day of their arrival, Geralt was approached by the emissary of a local lord whose livestock was being slaughtered by some monstrous pest or other. The details were vague, but he was used to that by now. And for the money he’d been offered, he’d even gone head to head with a Cyclops or Royal Wyvern. Jaskier, of course, wanted to tag along but Geralt only shook his head.

“Not this time”, he said. “Trust me when I say this won’t be worthy of a ballad.”

“You clearly underestimate my skill as a bard”, Jaskier piped up.

“Hm. Probably” Geralt felt an amused smile tug at his lips. “But be honest, would you rather spend the next few nights camped out in a roadside ditch watching sheep or here at the inn, entertaining the people?”

Jaskier paused, as if this needed any serious consideration before he admitted: “Here”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Don’t you dare run off, Witcher”, Jaskier said, a little prickly.

“Wouldn’t dream of it”, he said, raising his hands.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Thus, they had parted. Geralt had made sure to pay for their accommodation for a couple of days in advance and left Jaskier with a few more coins should this job take longer than he anticipated. Then he’d set out for the lord’s manor.

* * *

The hunt was frustrating and took longer than it rightly should have. It quickly became clear that he was dealing with a griffon, though an unusually clever one. The creature hunted exclusively at night, apparently having picked up on the fact that he was at an advantage because people were less likely to see him and even less likely to investigate the strange sounds echoing through the darkness. Geralt was honestly impressed. This appreciation quickly turned to discontent when the beast managed to evade him twice. Never in all his life had Geralt seen or heard of a griffon that actively avoided a fight. Then again, this unusual behaviour was probably why it had survived for as long as it had. Still, not even that saved it in the end. Geralt managed to track it back to its nest and finally slay it. A job well done. He collected his sizable reward, ignoring the fact that the lord visibly regretted parting with so much money for a dead griffin, and headed back towards Oxenfurt.

Back at the inn, he was a little surprised that Jaskier was not around. Then again, it was the middle of the day and he had a whole city full of diversions. After a hearty meal, he left the inn again as well and headed for the baths, intending to spend a few coins on a nice massage and maybe some pleasant company.

It was late, the sky outside already dark, when he returned. Jaskier still was nowhere to be seen and a hint of worry settled in Geralt’s chest. He turned to the innkeeper, but all the man could tell him was that he hadn’t seen Jaskier since yesterday. He neither knew where he’d gone or when he’d left. Trying to keep his frustration from showing on his face as a scowl, he thanked the innkeeper and went looking for his bard.

It wasn’t easy to find a track to follow. Jaskier had clearly been all about town but there was no way of telling how old the individual traces of his presence were. It was the proverbial search for the needle in the haystack. But Geralt had been on more futile quests, so he sighed and went to work, choosing a random track to follow.

He spent the next few hours running all across town, questioning whoever seemed like they could have seen the bard. Some had but no one seemed to know where he was right now. From the different accounts, a worrying picture was emerging. While Jaskier had at first done what he did best – plied his trade in the local inns and taverns –, he’d quickly grown melancholy. People had seen him walking about deep in thought, shunning all company. He’d stopped giving performances. That was all anybody knew.

At least until Geralt traced Jaskier’s movement to the shadier part of town and spotted a group of starving children huddled around a small fire they’d managed to get going. One of them, the oldest and likely the leader of the mismatched bunch, was coaxing a pitiful cat-wail of a melody out of a very familiar lute. Geralt froze, knowing instinctively that Jaskier would rather cut off his arm than part with this lute.

Fighting to keep his composure and appear as non-threatening as he could, he approached the children. “Hello there”, he said and inclined his head. “I’m looking for a friend of mine and was wondering if you’ve seen him.”

“An’ why should we?”, the oldest boy said defiantly, though it was all clearly an act. He could smell the child’s fear. His little group of friends didn’t even try to appear, huddling behind their leader.

“Seeing as you have his lute.”

“I bought that fair and square from Old Hag Annie, so unless your friend’s a washed-up wannabe witch…” The boy had it in him to smile cockily.

“How much did you pay for it?”

“Two silver”, the boy said. “Why?”

“Because my friend would probably really like his lute back and I’ll give you two gold if you part with it and tell me where I might find that Old Hag Annie you were talking about.”

“Deal”, the boy said and held out the lute in one hand and the other one palm up.

Geralt fished the promised coins out of his purse and handed them over, taking the instrument. “Thank you”, he said with a nod.

“Sure”, the boy said with an uncertain shrug. “Old Annie’s shop is in that alley over there. It’s the house with the purple door; can’t miss it. She lives right above the shop, so she’ll hear you knocking.”

“Hm” Geralt nodded once more and left, walking down the alley he’d been pointed towards. The house was, as promised, easy to find and his knocks were answered quickly as well.

The woman who opened the door looked indeed like an old woman bowed by age – to the human eye. As a witcher, Geralt recognised a glamour when he saw it.

“Smart”, he said and held the door open that the elven woman – because that was what she was under the glamour – was desperately trying to shut on him. “This is almost hiding in plain sight.”

“What do you want, Witcher?”, the woman spat.

“I’m glad you ask”, Geralt said, putting an intimidating, toothy smile on his face. “I would like to know how you got hold of my friend’s lute.” He showed her the instrument and she immediately recognised it.

“It was payment”, she said angrily. “A fair deal.”

“Payment for?”

The woman let go of the door and made a disgruntled sound, waving him inside with a rough gesture. “Not out here.”

Geralt stepped into the shop and waited for the woman to answer his question.

“I sold your friend a potion. The real deal. Don’t know how he found out I wasn’t the snake oil salesman I’m posing as but he did.”

“What kind of potion?”, Geralt interrupted her. It wasn’t like Jaskier to search out magic. He knew from experience how easy it could harm.

“A memory potion. He wanted to forget a painful past memory.”

“The fool!”, Geralt grumbled and ground his teeth. “Do you have any idea where I could find him?”

“He said he was staying at an inn, I think”, the woman said.

“Well, he’s not there.”

The news startled the elven woman and she looked genuinely guilty. “I hope the potion worked as intended”, she said, voice hushed. “I’d feel horrible if something went wrong. Let me help you find him, alright?”

“How?” Geralt crossed his arms.

“A tracking spell. It’s an easy enough enchantment given you have one of his personal possessions.”

“Fine.”

A short while after, outfitted with an enchanted crystal, Geralt left Old Annie’s shop and set out on his search once more. This time, his efforts bore fruits much faster. The crystal glowed brighter the closer he got to Jaskier’s location and with its help he quickly got to his destination.

It turned out to be an abandoned, half collapsed shack of a house that hunched in the shadow of the city wall. With a bad feeling in his stomach, Geralt entered the house and looked around. There were a few broken pieces of furniture but apart from that the main room was empty. Dust covered the floor and every other surface and thick spiderwebs hung from the ceiling and filled the corners of the room. There were two doors leading into adjacent rooms, one to his right and one to his left.

“Jaskier”, Geralt called out quietly, listening into the darkness. At first, he heard nothing but then his enhanced senses picked up on an almost inaudible noise coming from the room to his right. One hand on the hilt of his sword, he quietly moved into the direction of the sound.

He spotted Jaskier the moment he stepped into the room. The bard was splayed out on the ground, unmoving. Geralt rushed to his side, checking for wounds. To his relief, he found nothing but a few minor scratches. That made his unconsciousness even more worrying, however.

Careful not to jostle him too much, he tried to shake Jaskier awake. After a few tense moments, the bard indeed stirred. A strangled groan tore itself from his throat and forcing his eyes open seemed like a painful struggle. And even when he stared straight up at him, he didn’t seem to really see Geralt. At least there was no spark of recognition. His eyes were fever-bright and his pupils unusually large even given their dark surroundings.

“Jaskier” Geralt shook him once more in an effort to get his attention.

Finally, the bard seemed to become somewhat aware of his surroundings and Geralt’s presence. “What?”, he uttered, moving uncoordinatedly and weakly in the Witcher’s arms.

“Did you take the potion?”

“The potion … yes … I think.” Jaskier screwed his eyes shut, his breathing growing ragged and shallow.

Geralt let out a frustrated sigh. “Where is the bottle?”

“Must be somewhere around here”, Jaskier answered, sounding like he was about to drift off again.

“Hey, stay with me, alright?”

Jaskier managed a clumsy nod.

Geralt lowered him to the ground and started to look for the potion bottle. Something told him he would need it. It took him a moment, but he finally spotted it half buried under the remains of a wooden shelf. He grabbed it and then carefully picked up Jaskier, carrying him out of the house and back to Old Annie’s shop. The woman had made the botched potion, so she could damn well fix her mistake.

Upon his return, he found the door of the shop unlocked and no sign of the glamoured elven woman or any other soul. The shop was untouched but the apartment above it showed clear signs of a hasty departure: opened cabinets and scattered belongings that apparently hadn’t been deemed important enough to keep.

It dawned on him that the ill effects of the potion were far from an accident. Her escape was all the admittance of guilt he needed. Anger welled up in him, but he forced himself to stay on task. Right now, Jaskier was his priority.

The bard seemed to get worse by the minute. He was shivering despite the feverish heat radiating off of his body. When Geralt tried to rouse him once more the bard opened his eyes but was too delirious to do more than moan quietly.

“Don’t worry”, Geralt said in a tone he hoped was soothing. “We’ll get you back on your feet.” He laid Jaskier down on the bed upstairs before returning to the shop on the ground floor, looking through the stock the woman had left behind. He was hoping to either find something to figure out what type of potion he was dealing with or some form of magical communication device to contact either Yennefer of Triss. Better Triss, considering Jaskier’s antipathy towards the other sorceress.

He was unsuccessful in the first department but after scouring the shop’s back room he found a black mirror. As far as magic communication went, this wasn’t the safest or most reliable tool. However, in the absence of other options, it would have to do.

Bracing himself with a steadying breath, Geralt stared at the dark surface. He concentrated on Triss, conjuring up her image in his mind. He felt the mirror’s enchantment probe his mind, knitting his brow in disgust at the feeling. It took all his self-control to go against years of training and open himself up to the probing magic presence.

“Geralt?” Triss voice came from the mirror a blink of an eye before Geralt’s reflection dissipated and instead showed her face and immediate surroundings. She’d clearly been getting ready to go to bed.

“Triss, I need your help”, he cut to the chase.

“With?”

“Jaskier tried to buy a memory potion but he got duped. I have no idea what that woman gave him instead but he’s in bad shape.” The words rushed out of his mouth, urgent and tense.

“Where are you?”, she asked.

“Oxenfurt. At that poisoner’s shop. She’s taken to her heels, of course.”

“Give me a moment. I’ll be right with you.” With that and before Geralt could say another word, the mirror went dark and showed nothing but his reflection once more.

* * *

Triss kept her word, though. Not five minutes later, she stepped through a portal into the shop. She looked around, taking in the dingy surroundings.

“At least we won’t want for any ingredients”, she conceded.

“Hm”

“So, where’s my patient?”, Triss asked and rolled up her sleeves.

“Upstairs”, Geralt said. He handed her the empty potion vial. “Here; this might be helpful.”

“Immensely”, she said, an encouraging smile on her face.

Her optimism wavered when she actually began to examine Jaskier. “He’s running a fever. His body is trying to fight the effects of the potion, but he can’t keep this up much longer. His natural defences are no match for magic.”

“His body’s fighting it? First time I’ve heard of something like that”, Geralt said. The less by-the-book this whole affair became, the more unsettled he was by it.

“It’s quite uncommon and needs a considerable amount of strength and self-control”, Triss explained, looking at Jaskier with something close to awe. “But that’s something to ponder later. Let’s find out what we’re dealing with.” She took the bottle to hand and let it hover a few inches over her hand. A whispered incantation flowed from her lips. At first, nothing happened, then slowly colourful, ephemeral strings emerged from the bottle. They turned and twisted around one another.

“Hm”, Triss said and cocked her head. With a wave of her free hand the strings disentangled themselves until they formed a neatly arranged, ordered column that faded out of view before reaching the ceiling. “Oh.”

“What?” Geralt stepped closer even though he knew that wouldn’t make him see what Triss was seeing.

“Jaskier wanted to forget a very specific kind of memory”, Triss revealed, speaking in a low voice. She looked at him in sympathy. “A past relationship that ended tragically. And, well, in a way the potion seller gave him what he wanted, albeit in a cruel way.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”, Geralt ground out. He was growing impatient with Triss’ vague and cryptic statements.

“This potion was not made to erase a memory but to help forge new ones. Memories of a certain kind.” When Geralt still seemed at a loss what exactly Triss was getting at, she let out a frustrated huff. “Do I have to spell it out for you? It’s a virility potion.”

“Then why did he try to fight it?”, Geralt said, casting a doubtful look towards his traveling companion. “I’d have wagered he’d have the time of his life.”

“I doubt it”, Triss said sharply, shutting him up quickly. “It’s not a mild concoction that gives you a bit more stamina. This is pure loss of control mixed with unbridled desire and an unrelenting urge to sate these needs. It’s not pleasant. He probably noticed himself losing control and tried to stop, which was when the magic turned its destructive force on him.”

“Can you fix it?” The grim revelation had immediately extinguished any levity the situation might have had. Geralt had been made to lose control often enough to know how utterly _wrong_ it felt, not to mention the aftereffects.

“I can tell you what to do but the rest is up to you.”

“Go ahead then.” The words came out harsher than Geralt had meant. Still, he wasn’t too sorry about it. He hated the habit of sorceresses to beat around the bush and his patience was fast approaching its end.

Triss arched her eyebrow, a quiet warning. “The solution’s simple really. As it’s a potion, its duration is limited by design. If Jaskier keeps on fighting it, he won’t make it, but if he indulges himself the effects will wear off sooner rather than later.”

Geralt bristled. “Have you seen him? He’s not exactly in shipshape”

“That can be remedied. At least momentarily. All he needs is a bit of extra energy; something the potion can feed off of while you two hash out how best to tackle the situation.” She let a ball of glowing light appear in front of her.

“It’s probably useless to ask but is there another way?”

“Afraid not” Triss said earnestly. “Anything else?”

“No.” Geralt let out a deep sigh. “Thank you.”

Triss inclined her head. “Tell Jaskier not to drink any more random potions in the future.” With that, she sent the energy orb over to Jaskier and took her leave.

Before her portal had fully disappeared, Jaskier awoke with a gasp and abruptly sat up. On unsteady feet, he clambered out of the bed. His eyes looked around hectically as he tried to get his bearings. Once he laid eyes on Geralt, however, he froze.

“Geralt?”, he managed to get out, eyes wide like a stunned deer. “What–”

“Sit down, Jaskier”, Geralt said and gently pushed him back onto the bed. “I don’t know how much time we have.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Jaskier’s whole body tensed up as panic flooded his system. “What’s going on? Are we being attacked? Is it a monster? And where even are we?” The questions spluttered out of him.

“Jaskier!” Geralt took his shoulders, grip just tight enough to draw the bard’s full attention. “Listen to me. The potion you took wasn’t a memory potion.”

“What? How do you know about the potion?”

“Save that question for later. I don’t know how long Triss’ magic will hold and when it fades, we’re back at square one.” Geralt saw that Jaskier was about to interrupt and stopped him with a stern look. “You drank a virility potion but not one of the fun kind. Thing is, the only way out in this case is through according to Triss.”

Jaskier vehemently shook his head. “No. I won’t. I can’t. You don’t know how it felt. I couldn’t control myself.” He hid his face in his hands. His breathing was quick and frantic and trembling all over.

Usually, this was exactly the kind of behaviour that Geralt had no patience for. And yet, uncharacteristically, he found he wasn’t annoyed now. Kneeling down in front of the bard, he calmly said: “It’s the only way. Your body is not strong enough to fight off the magic until it’s depleted.”

“Geralt, you don’t understand. I was with somebody when the potion took effect and I–” A sob cut his sentence short, but Jaskier shook his head and got himself under control. “The things I wanted to do to her. I feel like I’ll throw up just thinking about it.” A violent shiver ran down his spine.

“Fuck” Geralt closed his eyes and sighed, not quite believing himself what he was about to propose. “Would it help you to know you couldn’t hurt the person who lay with you?”

“Maybe, yes, but – oh. _Oh_.” Jaskier’s eyes grew comically wide. “Are you suggesting–? I mean I had no idea that you … you know, go in for that kind of thing”, he stammered, flustered. His cheeks reddened.

“Don’t make me regret the offer”, Geralt grumbled. “It’s up to you, of course. Apart from that and the nearest brothel I’m out of ideas, though.”

“Alright”, Jaskier agreed, voice shaky and barely above a whisper. He extended his hand but then seemingly lost his nerve and let it drop back into his lap.

Witchers didn’t feel or at least they weren’t supposed to but right then a warm spark of fondness settled itself in Geralt’s chest. With a patient smile he slowly got up and freed Jaskier of his jerkin and then carefully undid the lacing of his linen shirt. Jaskier got with the program then, pulling the piece of clothing over his head and letting it fall to the floor unceremoniously. In the meantime, Geralt freed the bard of all other pieces of clothing that might possibly interfere.

“Lay down”, Geralt said. He locked and barred the door, then began taking off his armour. Absorbed as he was in his task, it took him a while to realize Jaskier was unusually silent. He looked over to the bed and saw that the bard was staring at him with open admiration. Geralt decided not to comment on it. Once he, too, was completely undressed he sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I don’t know how coherent you will be once the potion takes full effect again”, he said earnestly. “So, I’m asking you now: Is there anything you don’t want me to do?”

“Just … don’t let me hurt you” Jaskier sounded tense, worried. Geralt couldn’t blame him.

“No offence, but I’d like to see you try”, he replied, going for levity and missing by a mile. “Anything else?”

“No. I trust you.” Jaskier looked at him, then, his gaze remarkably steady. Geralt read the honesty of every word in his eyes and to know the extent to which the bard trusted him unleashed an avalanche of emotions he had no name for. Now was not the time to chase useless words, though.

It took all but a nudge against his thigh for Jaskier to open his legs. In other circumstances, Geralt would have relished how pliant the bard was. However, not knowing how much the potion affected Jaskier’s behaviour soured his joy immensely. Not that this was about him.

“Geralt, I think it’s starting again”, Jaskier gasped in the silence that had settled between them and as if to immediately remove any possible doubts about his words, his penis began to harden. Geralt felt Jaskier’s fear flaring up again, as palpable as a third physical presence in the room.

“It’s alright”, he said, hoping his voice sounded reassuring, and wrapped his hand around Jaskier’s length, giving it a few preparatory pumps. A long, obscene moan escaped Jaskier and he sank into the pillows. Whatever nervous tension there had been dissipated as Geralt continued his ministrations, accompanied by the bard’s exquisite moans.

“Geralt … please”, Jaskier breathed, an edge of desperation to his words. “More.”

With a low hum, the witcher adjusted his position and took Jaskier into his mouth. The bard let out an impressively colourful flood of curses that slowly deteriorated into mindless babbling as he began to truly suck him off. He tried to jerk his hips upwards but Geralt easily pinned him down. That earned him a pleading mewl he simply ignored.

After a while, Jaskier tried another method. He buried his hands in Geralt’s hair. Pulling at the white strands with surprising force, he tried to set the rhythm. Geralt half indulged him, quickening his pace somewhat.

It still wasn’t enough for Jaskier. Letting out a frustrated growl, he pulled the witcher off of him and up by his hair, claiming his mouth with a violent kiss. The bruising affections continued down Geralt’s neck and ended at his collarbone.

Then, before Geralt knew what was happening, he found himself on his back. Jaskier was sat on top of him, a hungry and triumphant expression on his face. His eyes were blown wide and the smile he wore had a manic edge. With a strength Geralt knew was foreign to him in an unaddled state Jaskier kicked his legs apart and effortlessly buried himself in the witcher. The initial discomfort drew a groan from Geralt’s lips. This unpleasant feeling faded quickly, though, and once Jaskier began to move the friction sent shuddering waves of pleasure rippling through his body.

Geralt rarely was on the receiving end when he slept with men. Not out of some misguided pride but because he actually wanted the other person to take charge when he did. Given that he was a witcher, few people dared to do that.

Jaskier, in his magic-drunk state, didn’t hesitate for a second. He was fully in control, setting the pace and manhandling Geralt into whatever position he liked thanks to the unusual strength that seemed to be a side-effect of the potion. His grip was rough, just the right side of painful, though there would definitely be some bruises.

Geralt spurned him on by trying to wrestle back control. He didn’t really intend to go through with it, only wanted Jaskier not to slow down or hold back. He needn’t have worried. The bard had no intention to slow down. He sat a break-neck pace, sweetening it by teasing Geralt with a trail of kisses across his torso. It was torture and bliss in unison and despite his best efforts to keep a clear head, in the end Geralt lost himself in the pleasure, too. They whipped each other into a frenzy, cumming almost simultaneously.

Like a marionette whose strings had been cut, Jaskier collapsed as soon as the orgasm faded. For a second, a sharp pang of worry shot through Geralt. Then he heard the bard’s deep, regular breaths. Jaskier was asleep.

He pulled him closer and draped a blanket over them. Morning was still a few hours away and Jaskier deserved some rest after what he’d been through.

He would want to talk about what had happened, of course; would try to find a label for it. Or maybe he would be too ashamed to address it, which had its own set of problems attached to it. However, all of that could wait.

Right now, still wonderfully sated, Geralt was simply content in the knowledge that everything was alright.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone who read this story, left kudos or commented! I was and still am completely blown away by the sheer amount of feedback this fic got. I hope you'll like this second part just as much.

As the sun rose higher into the foggy morning sky, the light falling through the small window by the bed slowly crept over the blanket and then the floor. Dust drifted lazily through the air. The soundscape of the city filtered in, muffled and seemingly far away. Jaskier was still asleep. Geralt had been wide awake for an hour and was slowly growing restless. It wasn’t the long sleep that made for his unease, it was what had followed it. Dead time. The delay of the aftermath.

With a quiet huff, he disentangled himself from Jaskier and got up. There was a simple washing basin in a corner of the room with a mirror above and a water pitcher next to it. Geralt walked over to it and quickly washed himself. As he did so he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and spotted a small collection of bruises on his neck and across his torso. He hadn’t expected there to be any reminders of last night and couldn’t help being a little impressed. Jaskier always seemed like such a lightweight, it was interesting to see what he was capable of when he stopped holding back. Provided this strength hadn’t been a side effect of the potion.

Behind him Jaskier stirred but when he turned around the bard had simply pulled the blanket tighter around himself. Geralt huffed and moved to gather his clothes and armour, getting dressed. Then he walked out of the room and sat down on the top of the stairs.

He’d enjoyed last night. There were no two ways about it. It didn’t feel right, though. Fucking potion. Fucking Jaskier, fool that he was, for drinking it.

A noise from inside the room – naked feet on the wooden floor – told him that Jaskier was finally awake. Geralt quietly got up and walked downstairs, passing the time by turning the shop upside down in the most likely vain hope to find a clue where to track down the owner. Right now, he wouldn’t have minded tracking her down and dragging her back here to hand over to the authorities. Selling harmful potions under false pretences. She’d most likely hang for that.

“Thank you for getting my lute back”, Jaskier said, interrupting Geralt’s train of thought. He lingered in the door leading to the stairway, leaning against the frame in a way that suggested a lingering exhaustion. His eyes were firmly cast downward.

“What were you thinking?”, Geralt snapped. “You of all people should know better than to mess around with magic. Wasn’t the djinn enough?”

“I wasn’t messing around”, Jaskier retorted, offended. “It was just a memory potion.”

“Only it wasn’t, was it.” Geralt glared at the bard and felt his anger spike. He shook his head, reigning himself in. “Let’s go back to the inn. I’d rather not be here when this shop is discovered to be abandoned.”

“Did you…?”, Jaskier asked shyly. He didn’t finish the question, but it was clear what he meant.

“No”, Geralt grumbled. “She fled. Smart move.” With that, he walked out onto the street and set off down the road, leaving it to the bard to follow or not. Of course, Jaskier did.

They packed in silence and left the city without speaking a word to each other. Apart from the fact that Geralt was keeping pace with Jaskier they might as well have been strangers who just happened to travel down the same road. It was just as well for Geralt who still felt himself seething with anger. However, traveling enveloped by this uncomfortable bubble of silence was grating. The miles seemed to stretch below them and by midday they had only covered a fraction of the distance they usually managed. He didn’t comment on it nor shouted at Jaskier to get a move on. The silence between them grew ever more solid, tying both their tongues.

Suddenly, accompanied by the sound of gravel splashing and bouncing across the road, there was a dull thud, followed by a groan. In the silence it seemed unnaturally loud and Geralt whipped around to see Jaskier on all fours but already getting up again.

“Apologies”, he mumbled absently as he dusted himself off. Without waiting for a reaction, he continued walking. His movements were stumbling, unsure and he listed from side to side like a man too deep in his cups.

With a huff, Geralt moved Roach so the horse was blocking Jaskier’s path and held out his hand. “Get on”, he said.

The bard hesitated, momentarily stunned, but ultimately took the offered hand and let himself be pulled into the saddle behind Geralt.

* * *

They stopped at a roadside inn. Newly flush with coin, Geralt rented one of the better rooms. Despite having spent the past few hours on horseback, Jaskier looked just about dead on his feet.

“Sit down”, Geralt said to him. With a gentle hand on his back he nudged him toward the tables near the roaring fireplace. “I’ll take care of roach and our things.” The fact that the bard didn’t even try to argue was a testament to his exhaustion.

When Geralt returned, Jaskier had occupied one of the tables closest to the fireplace and was staring at the flames without really seeing them.

“Have you ordered anything yet?”, Geralt asked as he sat down.

“No”, Jaskier replied. A shiver ran down his spine despite the warmth of the fire.

Geralt waved over the barmaid and ordered meats and an ale for each of them. The woman nodded and hurried away.

“How are you holding up?”, he asked, returning his attention to the bard.

“I’m … tired”, Jaskier admitted, a shaky smile crept onto his lips and fell away almost immediately.

“Anything else?”

Jaskier quietly shook his head. Silence stretched out between them until he interrupted it by saying: “I think I should apologize. For … everything.” He made a vague gesture with his hand that could have meant everything and nothing. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“No apology needed”, Geralt said. “Don’t do it again and we’re good.”

A joyless huff of a laugh escaped Jaskier. “Sure. I’d rather not have a repeat performance of that particular experience either.”

They fell silent once more. Their food came and they ate side by side, their conversation fallow. When their plates were empty and their tankards empty, they got up and walked upstairs. Geralt let Jaskier take the lead, holding a hand out to catch his companion should he stumble and fall.

Their room was spacious and cosy. Each of the two beds that took up most of the left side of the room would have fit two people provided they didn’t mind close contact. The sheets smelled fresh and were in good condition. Opposite of the door there was a window that looked out onto the street and the forest beyond. Below it was a wooden bench with furs draped across it to make it more comfortable to sit on. The right side of the room had a wooden writing desk that seemed to be the oldest piece of furniture in the room and next to it a shelf with a small collection of books on it. To the right of the shelf a door led to an adjacent, separate washing room. When Geralt had carried their gear upstairs, he’d come across one of the barmaids and given her a few coins to make sure a warm bath was waiting for them when they came upstairs.

“Come here”, he said to Jaskier, careful to keep his voice level.

The bard got up and truged over to him, though clearly unhappy about it.

“What?”

“I had them prepare a bath. The way you move tells me you’re either tense or sore. The warm water will help.” Geralt opened the door to the washroom and a gust of warm air drifted out.

“Ah. Thank you” Jaskier walked past him.

Geralt closed the door behind him and went to his small supply of potions and tinctures. It also included a few herbal oils and salves that helped with sore muscles. He picked the most fragrant one and followed Jaskier.

The bard was already in the bath when he entered and visibly tensed. His head jerked around and when he saw Geralt he quickly averted his eyes again, sinking deeper into the water. The witcher nonetheless saw the effort Jaskier put into forcing himself to relax.

“Got something else that might help”, Geralt said and held up the bottle. “Want me to help you with your back?” It was an innocent enough question. They’d done this for each other on multiple occasions already. After last night the question seemed fraught, though, so it was no wonder that it took Jaskier a while to reply.

“That would be nice”, he breathed and leaned forward to give Geralt access.

However, no matter what the bard had said, his shoulders were rigid when Geralt, oil spread evenly across his palms, touched them. He could feel the bard’s muscles tense up ever so slightly under his touch and for a moment he pondered offering to leave. He didn’t, though. If Jaskier wanted him to go, he’d have to tell him.

Geralt turned his attention to the task at hand, massaging the oil into Jaskier’s skin. Whenever he came upon an especially strained muscle he worked more forcefully and devoted some extra time to dispelling the tension. Slowly but surely Jaskier began to relax. His breathing, deliberately forced into an even rhythm before, came easy now. Geralt moved on to Jaskier’s arms, slow enough to stop at the first sign of discomfort from the bard. None came.

“I take it you can take care of the rest”, he finally said with a smirk and put the small bottle down on the edge of the tub.

“Yes. Thank you.”

The words no longer hung as awkwardly between them.

When Jaskier emerged from the bath, Geralt was busy cleaning and sharpening his swords. It was a task he’d learned to enjoy. Practised. Perfected. Simple. While he worked, Jaskier dressed in his night clothes and slipped under the covers. He had his lute with him, plucking absently at the strings. Sweet melodies filled the room and even with his admittedly lacking knowledge of the bard’s craft Geralt recognised the skill behind it. One musical theme flowed into the other only interrupted by the sound of whetstone on steel.

After a while, the notes grew more disjointed and then ceased altogether. Geralt looked over his shoulder and saw that Jaskier had fallen asleep, still leaning against the bed’s headboard. His lute rested on his lap.

Geralt walked over and carefully took the instrument from him, leaning it against the wall. Then he nudged the bard until he blinked open his eyes again, mumbled protests on his lips.

“You’re going to get a crick in your neck”, was all Geralt said.

Jaskier groaned and adjusted his position, already half asleep again. With a fond hum, Geralt extinguished the candles and went to bed as well.

Geralt was an early riser, up with the sunrise even when there was no rooster’s crow to wake him. Even so, when he woke up the next morning, he found Jaskier’s bed empty. Something in him tensed like a bowstring, drawn overly taut. In a rush, he was up and dressed, hurrying down the stairs.

Relief hit when, halfway down, he heard the familiar sounds of Jaskier’s lute. He stilled, took a deep breath. Only then did he take the final few steps.

Jaskier was sitting on a barstool that was precariously balanced on its hind legs, the bard supporting it by leaning against the counter. Whatever song he was playing was unfamiliar to Geralt. The two bar maids seemed to know it quite well, though. They quietly sang along as they went about the room, cleaning up the remains of the night before.

“Good morning”, Geralt said, voice just loud enough to be heard.

The scene in front of him stopped. The two barmaids whirled around, returned his greeting in hushed tones and then hurried off into the kitchen. Geralt was used to this sort of reaction. But not from Jaskier, who also scrambled to get up. It wasn’t right. Geralt wanted to tell him to stay but it was already too late. One ill-advised movement tipped the balance of the barstool and it toppled over, taking Jaskier with it. He landed hard, a pained yelp escaping him. There seemed to be no real damage, however, as he immediately got up again. It was the second time in two days he’d fallen, Geralts mind supplied like there was something significant about the fact.

“You alright?”, he asked and patted the bard’s shoulder.

“Mhm”, Jaskier wheezed. He grabbed his lute off the floor and checked it for any damage. A deep sigh escaped him when he found it had survived the fall unharmed.

“What was that about anyway, jumping up like you’ve seen a ghost?”

Jaskier opened his mouth but no explanation seemed to come to him. After a moment, he gave up with a big sigh.

The situation had turned awkward and Geralt half wished he hadn’t asked. “Come on, let’s have breakfast”, he tried to smooth things over. Thankfully, Jaskier seemed all too eager to move on as well and quickly agreed.

Later in the day, back on the road, the events of the morning were still stuck in Geralts head. Next to him, Jaskier was variably humming along and commenting on the scenery. However, something about the bard’s monologue seemed different today. There was a tension to the words, a desperation that increased with every pause in their one-sided conversation. Geralt concentrated, listening to the bard’s heartbeat. It was fast-paced. The witcher singled out Jaskier’s scent and it confirmed what he’d already guessed: The bard was brimming with nerves.

There was no way to ask about it, though. At least he couldn’t find one that wouldn’t make Jaskier simply deny anything was wrong.

When the sun set, they stopped at another inn. Jaskier looked at him with a raised eyebrow but said nothing, which was just as well because Geralt had no intention of explaining himself. He would have had to admit that he was going easy on the bard and he couldn’t see that going over without an unnecessary fight over hurt pride. Jaskier liked to believe he’d toughened up. Geralt couldn’t deny that he complained less about sleeping outside or walking all day but that was a far shot from actually being able to handle life on the road. And, if he had been honest, he would also have had to admit that he was intentionally spoiling Jaskier. Because Geralt felt guilty. Not that Jaskier had complained about his solution to the whole potion debacle. Then again, Geralt had almost immediately started a fight about it and after that neither of them had talked about it at all.

Jaskier was restless during dinner and as soon as his plate was empty bounced off to entertain the other guests. If the witcher hadn’t known better, he would have accused him of having read his mind and seen his intention to broach the delicate subject. But witchers were nothing if not patient and Jaskier could only evade him for so long. So, he ordered another beer and settled in for the wait. His quarry wasn’t so easily snared, however. Jaskier, upon ending his performance, let himself be pulled into a conversation with one of the few women who was by herself and soon after followed her upstairs.

The witcher finished his drink, then retired to his room. There was no rush, he told himself. Still, much like during a hunt, patience without anything to show for it didn’t sit well with him. A loud knock from the adjacent room interrupted his musings and he looked angrily at the offending wall. The noise was soon followed by the sound of a bed being used very enthusiastically and – since destiny seemed to hate him – Jaskier’s idea of dirty talk. Geralt glowered at the wall before walking out of the room. He went to the stables and made sure Roach was well cared for, feeding her some sugarcubes.

Upon his return, he was more than a little surprised to find Jaskier in the room as he had his own and usually wasn’t the type to bail immediately after he’d had his fun.

“She throw you out?”, he asked with a smirk.

“No! Fine, yes … something like that”, the bard stammered. With a sigh, he slumped down on the bed just to jump up as if stung.

Geralt raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “Alright, what is going on?”

“What?” Jaskier stared at him, wide-eyed, his gaze flitting over to the door. Geralt stepped in front of it.

“You’re acting weird”, the witcher stated.

Jaskier’s face hardened and Geralt knew he’d said the wrong thing.

“What’s it to you?”, the bard spat and stormed over to him. He put his hands on his hips, daring him to speak.

“Because you’ve been acting strange since we left Oxenfurt.”

Jaskier reacted as if he’d been punched. He stumbled backwards, all air escaping him in a loud gasp.

“So it is about that”, Geralt concluded.

“I didn’t say that!”, Jaskier shouted. He’d gone pale.

“You didn’t have to.” Geralt huffed. “There’s no use denying it. If you want to talk about it, now’s your chance.”

“Talk about it?”, Jaskier repeated incredulously, voice high and wavering. He laughed mirthlessly. “About what? How you surprised me with the knowledge that you apparently have nothing against…” His voice grew quiet, flustered. “sex with men.” His cheeks flushed and his gaze, fiery and solidly fixed on Geralt before, dropped for a moment. He quickly found his anger again, though. “Or how about that I woke up and you were gone.”

“I was downstairs”, Geralt interjected.

In reply, Jaskier glared at him and shook his head. “Fine”, he said. It didn’t sound fine. “Glad we talked about it.”

“Jaskier”, Geralt said pleadingly. “I left to have a moment to gather my thoughts. I thought you would appreciate having some time to yourself, too.”

The bard deflated somewhat. He opened his mouth but closed it again without saying anything.

“And I wouldn’t have offered what I did to just anyone”, Geralt added.

“Would you have offered at all? If … things had been different”, Jaskier asked quietly. His posture was tense, anxious.

“I don’t know”, Geralt admitted.

Jaskier nodded, but his expression was blank and didn’t betray his thoughts. After a moment, he said: “I tried not to think about it, but what little I remember always resurfaces. I’m sorry.” He raked a hand through his hair nervously.

“Nothing to be sorry for”, the witcher assured him.

Jaskier held onto his gaze like it was a lifeline. There was careful hope in his eyes.

“Magic always muddles things up, makes them complicated”, Geralt continued, choosing his words very carefully. “But no matter if your feelings are an echo of the potion’s effect or have existed even before you took it, I won’t judge you.”

Again, Jaskier nodded. “But what about you? Do you– I mean have you ever–” The bard didn’t quite seem to know how to put his question into words. Geralt could guess what he wanted to know, though.

“On occasion”, he answered. “Often enough to know what I’m doing, though I tend to prefer women.”

Another nod. The tension in the room was palpable. It felt like a held breath.

Jaskier cut through it, saying quietly: “I think I should go. There’s a lot I need to think about.”

Geralt could have stopped him but his gut feeling told him to let the bard go. He couldn’t expect things to resolve themselves in a single conversation. Still, it seemed like a good start.

* * *

The next few days proved him right. Jaskier was more at ease around him again and though the final word was not yet spoken on the matter it seemed less of a Damocles sword hanging over their heads now. Geralt still made sure to keep him close, even taking him on assignments he previously would have deemed far too dangerous. It seemed safer to have an eye on him. Especially when he was in one of his more sullen moods that still came over him once in a while. If Jaskier noticed or minded, he didn’t let it show. In fact, he seemed to be ecstatic to be allowed to tag along more often.

They were just on the way back from their most recent hunt – a few drowners that had taken over a small pond that was the main water source for the nearby village – when Geralt spotted something in the distance. He squinted his eyes, stopping Roach when he spotted the tell-tale swaying movements and tattered shreds of white cloth dancing through the fields by the roadside.

“What are you looking at?”, Jaskier asked as he stopped next to him. Geralt didn’t have to say anything. He knew immediately when the bard spotted the noonwraith, the smell of fear suddenly thick in the air.

“Don’t look at it too long”, Geralt said in a low voice. Jaskier immediately looked down at his feet.

“What now? Do we wait here until she disappears?” Jaskier was shaking, his breaths coming in short gasps.

“No”, Geralt decided. “We wait until she’s a bit farther from the street. Then we can simply pass by. Just keep your head down and you’ll be fine.”

Jaskier nodded, the movement jerky and cut off. Geralt returned his attention to the wraith. In training they’d learned to track an apparition’s movements without directly looking at it. He was glad for it now. The noonwraith teetered dangerously close, as if she was walking by the roadside, drawing slowly closer. Then, with an abrupt motion, she veered off. Geralt waited until there was some distance between them, then carefully nudged Roach to move forward.

“Now’s our chance”, he said quietly.

Jaskier didn’t follow his lead and Geralt stopped his horse, turning his head. “Come on”, he whispered urgently. The wraith seemed to be on its way back. They had to move.

“I can’t”, Jaskier said, his voice sounding strangled. “I can’t move.”

Grumbling, Geralt dismounted and walked up to him. “We can’t stay here”, he said, doing his best to sound neither frustrated nor tense, both of which he very much was. “Here; take my hand. You just have to make it the few steps over to Roach.”

But Jaskier didn’t seem to hear him. He was fully hyperventilating now, frozen in place. In any other situation, Geralt would have yelled at him to get a grip to snap him out of it but with the noonwraith so close he didn’t dare.

The wraith screamed, high pitched and piercing, and rushed across the field. It was now lingering just out of range of Geralt’s sword. Jaskier’s heartbeat spiked.

“Don’t move”, the witcher said calmly, slowly unsheathing his sword. The wraith zeroed in on him.

“Well then”, Geralt addressed the creature, “let’s dance.” He swung his sword, watching it go through the wraith’s incorporeal body. There was no blood to draw but by the ear-splitting scream the silver still worked as it should. Still, fighting a wraith without proper preparation was risky.

The apparition reformed quicker than he had anticipated and lunged for him. He dodged, making sure to move the fight away from Jaskier. He got a second good hit in. And a third. The noonwraith looked ailing when it drew itself together once more. Its whole upper body listed to the left, hanging in an unnatural angle. Even its scream sounded less piercing and more like a pained, gurgling death rattle. One more blow might kill it, Geralt thought. He got into position and lunged forward, but the apparition made one final desperate attempt to fight back. It screamed with all its might. The sound forced the witcher to abandon his attack to shield his ears. That gave the noonwraith enough time to strike. Geralt tried to back away but it was too late. The apparition’s claws raked across his shoulder, phasing right through the leather armour yet easily piercing his skin. It cut deep and a scream escaped him.

And then, to make matters worse, the noonwraith turned his attention on Jaskier. Geralt tightened his grip on the sword, ignoring the pain flaring up in his shoulder, and used Yrden. The wraith was pinned in place, at least momentarily. Geralt fell into a sprint, quickly closing the distance between him and the bard who finally had come out of his stupor only to get spooked by the apparition right in front of him. Jaskier cried out and stumbled backwards, his eyes on the undead bride in front of him. Geralt cursed. He skidded past the noonwraith, swinging his sword.

Instead of connecting, the sword hit air as the wraith suddenly dematerialised. For a hopeful second, Geralt thought that maybe the noonwraith had decided to retreat. Then he was knocked down as the wraith went right through him, death-cold, aching shivers running through his whole body. Pain shot through his shoulder, numbing his arm momentarily and making him lose his grip on his sword. With a metallic clatter, it landed in the dust next to him. He reached for it, but the wraith was already upon him, raking a clawed, spectral hand across his back. The witcher cried out. Despite the disorienting pounding pain, he had enough presence of mind to use Quen. The shield wouldn’t hold long. No matter. It only had to hold until he was back on his feet.

Above him, the noonwraith screamed, readying itself for another attack. Suddenly, the scream cut off, its echo quickly fading. Geralt got his feet under him again and stood, trying to simultaneously look for the wraith and his sword. The apparition was nowhere to be seen. His sword, however, had somehow made into Jaskier’s hands. His hold on it was so flimsy and wrong that it was almost painful.

“I– I got her. I think”, Jaskier stammered.

Geralt waited for one tense moment. When the noonwraith stayed gone, he let out a sigh of relief and nodded.

“You got her.”

Carefully, he began to take off his armour to take a look at the wound. As soon as the cover of protective leather came off, he could see the growing red bloodstain on his shoulder and imagined his back wasn’t looking much better.

Jaskier dropped his sword with a gasp. “You’re–”

“I’m fine”, Geralt said, voice gruff.

“You’re bleeding!”, Jaskier said, sounding almost indignant. He bat Geralt’s hand away and janked the collar of his shirt aside to get a look at it. “The cuts on your shoulder aren’t too deep”, he attested after a moment. Relieved, he walked around the witcher to look at the other wound. The sharp breath he took was all Geralt needed to hear.

“Let’s find a good place to set up camp. Sounds like I better patch myself up soon.”

They found a small copse that shielded them from view. Geralt tied Roach to a sturdy tree and dug through his saddle bags in search of his potions and salves. Jaskier hovered close-by, apparently unsure what to do. Finding what he’d been looking for, Geralt turned his attention on him.

“I’ll need your help”, the witcher said.

Jaskier nodded, doing his best to keep up a brave façade Geralt saw right through. It was a valiant effort, though.

Geralt stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside. He pressed a bottle of strong spirits into Jaskier’s hand. “Pour that over the wounds”, he said and sat down. He’d expected the bard to hesitate but Jaskier lost no time, letting the biting liquid run over his shoulder and across his back. Geralt screwed his eyes shut, forcing himself to remain motionless.

“Good”, he said once it was over. “Now, how long and deep are the cuts on my back?”

Jaskier told him, voice wavering. Geralt threw a glance at him over his shoulder. The bard had paled but was still holding on to his composure.

“That’ll need stitches”, the witcher stated. “Do you know how?”

“Yes” Jaskier’s voice sounded flat. He took a deep breath, then repeated: “Yes.”

“Good. Are you up to it? I don’t need you keeling over halfway through. If you think you can’t do it, say it now and we figure something else out.”

“I can do it”, Jaskier said firmly. “Where’s the yarn and needle?”

“Still in the apothecary bag.”

Jaskier worked quickly and quietly, his hands moving deftly and with a certainty that spoke of practice.

“Have you done this before?”, Geralt asked.

“A few times. Farm work is ripe with opportunities for cuts and scrapes and broken bones. I picked up a thing or two.” He fastened the yarn and severed it with a quick, forceful tug. “There. Done.”

“Thank you”, Geralt said. He had used the time to treat the cuts on his shoulder. The herbal salve he’d spread over it had already staunched the bleeding. Wrapped in a fresh bandage, the wounds would soon fade.

They ended up staying in the small woodland. In part because the sun was still high and Geralt didn’t want to risk another wraith encounter. But most of all because Jaskier was slowly coming down from the adrenaline high that had kept him going until now and looked like a slight breeze could knock him over. He was ashen-faced and shaking. Shock. Given that he’d already witnessed what a noonwraith could do, it was no surprise.

“Sit down”, Geralt said quietly and when Jaskier didn’t react, he gently pushed him down. The witcher fetched his waterskin and offered it to the bard. “Here. Drink; you’ll feel better.”

With a shaky nod, Jaskier complied. “I’m sorry”, he whispered, his hands clutching the waterskin. “You could have died.” A pause. A shaky breath. “You could have died because I fucking froze up.”

“Hm. Maybe. I’m still here, though.”

It didn’t seem to be the comfort he meant it to be. A sob escaped Jaskier, his shoulders trembling. He muttered something under his breath that would have been inaudible except to the keen senses of a witcher. “I’m cursed; I bring nothing but trouble.”

“Jaskier, look at me”, Geralt said firmly, waiting for the bard’s eyes, shimmering with tears, to meet his. He reached for the bard’s hand and pulled it onto his chest. “My heart is still beating, right?”

Jaskier nodded.

“I’ve had way closer scrapes than this. You froze, it happens.”

“Not to you”, the bard said, sniffling.

“Not anymore, no. But before the mutations, at the beginning of my training at Kaer Morhen, I froze more than once.”

“You were a child!”

“I was human”, Geralt said calmly. “And like the fearlessness of a witcher, the fear of humans serves a purpose. It keeps you alive. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Not moving. What a survival skill”, Jaskier scoffed, seemingly determined to put himself down.

“Depending on the predator, yes. Many dangerous animals can see moving targets far more easily than stationary ones. Even the noonwraith today might have left you alone, but I wasn’t gonna take a chance.”

“Thank you”, Jaskier said, a shaky smile on his lips. “For saving me. Again.”

“I’m starting to get used to it”, Geralt replied with levity.

Jaskier made a face. “If that’s supposed to cheer me up, you’re doing a terrible job of it.” There was a brief flash of a smile on his lips, though.

“Just being honest”, the witcher said, hands raised in mock surrender. There was a comfortable lull in their conversation. After a while, Jaskier took his lute and started playing, humming a tune that sounded like a lullaby. Geralt could see that it calmed him down, so he let him continue. The soft melody had a calming effect on the witcher as well. Or maybe it was the awareness of Jaskier’s heartbeat, slowly evening out. It should have felt more like lost time, sitting here doing nothing but, strangely enough, it didn’t. Geralt looked at the bard, lost in his music, and felt a strange lightness in his chest. It took him a while to identify it as relief.

Geralt had hoped that would be the end of it but it was more like having worked a string at the hem of a piece of clothing loose. Suddenly you couldn’t stop pulling at it, even at the risk of damaging the garment. The witcher looked at Jaskier, wondering not for the first time what made the bard stick around. He seemed so unfit for the kind of life Geralt was leading, yet he’d chosen to follow him. And sure, he complained and had gotten them both into trouble more times than the witcher was willing to think about, but he had always kept up his part of the bargain, seemingly never tiring of singing his praises. Geralt didn’t think of his work as particularly heroic, but Jaskier never failed to make it sound like it was. He gave all the blood and butchery the appearance of some noble quest and sometimes, sat in a tavern surrounded by the bard’s rapt audience, he could almost believe it. And for all of that, all he had ever asked of Geralt was to be allowed to stay. Asked being the operative word. Because, clearly, what Jaskier had hoped for was something more, a connection that went far beyond simple travel companions. And Geralt still owed him an answer.

“Jaskier”, he said, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.

The bard stopped playing and looked up, something like worry creasing his brow. “Is something wrong?”, he asked.

Geralt shook his head. “You asked me, if I would have offered to sleep with you even without the potion. Would you have wanted me to?”

Jaskier blushed a rather flattering shade of red. “Yes”, he admitted quietly.

“You mean a lot to me, Jaskier, which is why I want to be honest with you. I want you to know what you’re getting yourself into and then I will ask you again.”

“The answer will stay the same”, Jaskier said, voice full of confidence.

“Hear me out”, Geralt warned. “You know that they say witchers can’t feel.”

“But that’s obviously not true”, Jaskier interrupted, sounding incensed. “Granted your primary emotion seems to be grumpy, but you care about people.”

Geralt sighed. “In a way, you’re right. But – in a way – what the people are saying is true as well. The best I can describe it is that witchers not so much _feel_ emotions as think them. What I have in terms of feelings is, compared to humans, stunted, but I understand them, and I know how they express themselves. And, yes, I care but it’s different from the way you care about somebody.”

“I don’t care”, Jaskier said firmly. He got up and walked over to Geralt, kneeling down next to him.

Annoyed at the repeated interruptions, Geralt let out a low growl that shut the bard up. “What I’m trying to tell you”, he pressed on”, is that I can’t return your feelings the way you surely want to.”

“I haven’t asked you to”, Jaskier simply said. He took Geralt’s hand, wrapped it up with both of his. “Despite what you seem to think, I’m not stupid. I’d gathered that these things work differently for you and I’ve long made my peace with that. I will take what you can give.”

Geralt was actually speechless.

Jaskier smiled. Not the boastful smile of a performer. A shy, intimate smile that made his eyes shine with joy. “So, as you can see, I’ve made up my mind. All I need is an answer from you and an honest one. I don’t want to indulge me.”

“Hmm” Geralt couldn’t stop the smile that crept onto his face. Despite having witnessed him being blunt to just about everybody they met, Jaskier still thought he would go easy on him. It was something only his bard was capable of. And because Geralt knew he would not be able to put his feelings into words in any meaningful or coherent way, he acted instead. Leaning forward, he kissed Jaskier, allowing himself to linger.

The bard moaned into the kiss and let out a sound of disappointment when the witcher withdrew. Jaskier laughed, a little self-conscious. “You’re really good at this”, he said.

“I would hope so”, Geralt hummed, pulling Jaskier close once more. The first kiss had been chaste for his standards. It had been a confirmation, a wordless yes. For this one, he didn’t hold back and Jaskier was all the more eager for it. The bard’s hands wandered up the witcher’s chest, blindly fumbling with his shirt, more an invitation to remove it than an actual attempt to do it himself. Geralt obliged. In turn, he undid the lacing of Jaskier’s jacket, sliding it off his shoulders and then further until it landed on the ground. His shirt followed.

After having spent years traveling together, sharing rooms and bathing together, seeing Jaskier shirtless should not have been a revelation. Oh, but it was. Geralt stilled and simply looked.

“What?”, came Jaskier’s voice, openly self-conscious.

“Just admiring the view”, Geralt teased with a smirk.

“Oh” It was a soft sound. The blush on Jaskier’s cheeks deepened and the shy smile from before made another appearance.

Slowly, Jaskier scooted even closer, leaving barely a hand’s breadth of space between them. He kissed the witcher on the lips but moved on before the kiss could deepen, trailing down along Geralt’s throat. The small, subdued sounds of pleasure coming from the witcher made Jaskier shiver with delight. He moved further down still, kissed along the scars on Geralt’s torso. Languidly, he made his way down until he reached the border where skin disappeared beneath clothing still.

With anyone else, Jaskier wouldn’t have thought twice about moving forward, but with Geralt, something stopped him. He sat up, re-establishing the tiniest bit of distance between them.

“Everything alright?”, Geralt asked calmly.

“Yes”, Jaskier assured him. “This just feels very new.” The words stumbled out of his mouth, awkward and much less silver-tongued than usual. “I know it isn’t. Technically. But I wasn’t really quite myself the last time and I only remember bits an pieces.” He was babbling.

“I think I know what you mean”, Geralt interrupted him gently. “This isn’t going to be like last time.” He put his hands on Jaskier’s shoulder and felt the bard relax into his touch.

Jaskier nodded slowly, letting out a breath he hadn’t even been aware of holding. “I’m overthinking this”, he muttered and pulled a chagrined face.

“There’s no rush”, Geralt assured him. He didn’t suggest they stop because he had a feeling Jaskier would misconstrue the offer, but he wouldn’t pressure him into anything either. If Jaskier needed time to make up his mind, he would have it.

Silence fell between them. The situation reminded Geralt of a stand-off. Neither side budging, waiting for the other to make a move.

Finally, Jaskier seemed to have made a decision. He took a deep, steadying breath ere he leaned closer again and breathed a soft kiss onto Geralt’s lips. The witcher noticed that there was still hesitation. Jaskier worked through it, though, until his inhibitions and flaring nerves fell away. Only then did Geralt truly begin to reciprocate. Quickly, they got into the swing of things once more and this time there was no hesitation. One after the other, the rest of their clothes were stripped off and discarded. There was only one slight interruption as Geralt went to fetch a vial of oil he had recently purchased as a just-in-case should a situation like this arise. He had told himself it was only for Jaskier’s sake. That if they ever slept with each other again, he wanted the experience to be as far from that night as possible. Tender and slow instead of rough and manic.

Jaskier lay sprawled out on the bedroll, breathing heavily. His eyes were dark with lust and the expectation of what was to come. All hesitation was gone and there was no doubt that he wanted this. Geralt carefully began to work him open. He moved torturously slow, ignoring the bard’s wordless protestations and stopping him when he got too eager in chasing the friction.

“Please”, Jaskier uttered for what felt like the hundredth time. His pleas had steadily grown more insistent and Geralt decided it was time to relent and indulge him. He moved the bard’s legs a bit further apart, trailing his hands along the soft, light skin on the inside of Jaskier’s thighs. The bard moaned and shuddered at the touch, his hips bucking upwards. Words fell from his lips, jumbling together.

Geralt moved into him, doing his best to be gentle. He felt Jaskier tensing around him. Every shudder of the bard’s body set off a wave of pleasure.

“Good?”, he asked, voice husky and rough.

“Good”, Jaskier echoed in confirmation and nodded emphatically. He looked already on the verge of losing himself. With a smirk, Geralt grabbed the bard who weighed almost nothing to him around the waist and pulled him close. He kissed him, deeply and passionately, in time with the first slow thrusts. Every little movement drew moans and colourful curses out of Jaskier.

“Don’t stop!”, the bard gasped, clinging to Geralt. Jaskier’s stream-of-consciousness was a welcome measure for the bard’s enjoyment. Aided by it and his witcher senses, Geralt adjusted his pace so as to keep Jaskier right at the precipice of orgasm. Sweet release tantalisingly close, yet out of his grasp.

“Good?”, the witcher growled teasingly.

Jaskier let out a groan.

“Is that a yes or a no?”, Geralt chuckled, speeding up ever so slightly. He felt Jaskier immediately react to the change of pace, quickly approaching release. At the last minute, he slowed down again, leaving the bard high and dry.

“Must you”, Jaskier gasped, “torment me so?”

“Am I?”, Geralt said in a low voice. “Tell me, then. What would you have me do to please you?”

Jaskier let out a sound that was caught somewhere between a sigh and a moan. “Just let me finish”, he begged.

Geralt hummed and granted the bard’s wish. It didn’t take much, on edge and overstimulated as he already was. Jaskier shuddered, his whole form shivering with waves of delight that were echoed by the witchers own body. Until now, Geralt had been so attuned to the bard’s mounting lust that he had completely ignored his own. Something that was no longer possible as he, too, felt the first signs of a fast approaching orgasm. He held Jaskier tighter, moved with more fervour as he placed sloppy kisses along the bard’s jaw. There were no more words. Just two bodies moving in unison. It was exhilarating in a way Geralt had to admit he only rarely experienced. Around him, Jaskier tightened; his hands clawing into the witcher’s arms. Geralt grunted as the bard’s orgasm drove him over the edge with him.

They slowly came back to themselves and the world, both still breathing heavily and drenched in sweat. A shaky laugh escaped Jaskier as he untangled himself and gracelessly flopped down onto the bedroll, looking utterly satisfied.

“That was something else”, he managed to get out after a moment.

“It was”, Geralt agreed. He sprawled out beside the bard, laying on his side to not strain his shoulder and back any further. Both were throbbing with pain, but he couldn’t have cared less right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About halfway through writing this second chapter I found out that apparently Jaskier is a Viscount? Which makes my alternative backstory for him very far off the mark. I hope nobody's too bothered about that... 
> 
> Anyway, this won't be my last fanfic in the witcher fandom. I'm already working on a longer fic but it might take a while until you get to read it because I only post once I'm done writing. Maybe there'll also be the odd oneshot here or there.

**Author's Note:**

> The song Jaskier sings is called "Black is the colour of my true love's hair" (or sometimes just "Black is the colour"). There are a lot of different versions of it that all seem to have slightly differing lyrics, so I took the liberty of changing the wording a little as well.
> 
> I kinda want to write a part two for this but I honestly don't know when or if I will find the time.


End file.
